"I want Babe and Betsy. Where's that little pale printer's devil, the
one they call the gambler's ghost? I know Sam won't let you girls leave
here."

"He's workin' up on the paper, I guess. They ran out of coal oil and had
to fire up with pine knots."

"He's comin, now. He ain't no gambler's ghost tonight, though; he's pot
black!"

"Ghost," said Curly, "you take this around to Allie." It was a $50
octagonal slug.

"Yessir."

"And you say that there's more, all she wants, where that comes from."

"Yessir."

Then, shaking his mop of brown, curly hair as though to relieve his head
of a burden, he took the girls for what he felt was a much-needed round
of drinks.

By midnight the place was wild!

"Sam," shouted Curly, "what's the limit on your pesky old game?"

"The ceiling's the limit."

"Well, I'll put up one bet! Bein' on Easy Street I was goin' back to the